


Recess

by PrancingProngsy



Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: Drug Use, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, leoaster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 02:51:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1923972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrancingProngsy/pseuds/PrancingProngsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quiet breath, soft words, hushed whispers. Even great minds need a place to reside when the world gets too loud, and thinking becomes too much. Even lighthearted miscreants are weighed down and need mitigation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recess

            Smoke hung in the air between them, light, sweet, flowery. Their breath was shallow, quiet, **unlabored**. The pipe sat across his legs, smoking silently as their hushed words slowed and finally dissipated, fingers curled loosely around the shaft of it, holding it in place as he fell back against his pillows with the small breath pushing past his lips, smoke tailing behind it. Whatever words he murmured after moving the pipe, allowing it to rest across his chest, lazily, limbs heavy, mind floating somewhere between drowsy and awake, _were lost_ , falling on deaf ears as his friend moved to place himself next to him, head resting against a sea of pillows.  
  
                        There was a moment of silence, between them only air, laced with the unique smell of their vices. They had done this before, countless times. Situations sometimes called for them to come together after curfew, to hole up in his studio, with his pipe, in his bed, quietly discussing the events that led to this **retreat** into the comfort of his home, his world, with his pipe and the one person he trusted more than his mentor.  
  
            His head lulls to the side, eyes drawn to the shape of the profile of his companion. Their feet tangled together. Deft fingers set the pipe aside for a moment so he could lie on his side, studying what he considered to be a work of art. An amused smile crossed the other’s lips, a question without words passed between them. Mumbled words regarding how his skin, his bone structure, his eyes **fascinated** the artist fell from his lips without prompting.  
  
                                                                        _Another little smile._  
  
            He turns over again, silently retrieving he pipe, taking a long drag before passing it to his companion. They blow smoke at the ceiling together. Their breath mingled on its upward journey. Their hands fumble together, eventually managing to place the pipe down on the floor. Their efforts to remove inflammatory objects from the bed were a success. The artist breathed against his friend’s neck, where his nose had found shelter, arms winding around him pleasantly.  
   
                       For a moment they’re still, lying there, bodies meshing as they took a moment to remove themselves from the world. Here they were not subject to judgment, not that that had ever stopped them anyway, or scorn. Here they were two men, lying together, half undressed, smoking tears of the poppy until they forgot their names, and pretending they were the only people in the world. He murmurs his name against his neck, lips brushing ever so softly against the warm skin of his companion. He shifted in the artist’s grasp, moving so their eyes can lock together, deep brown and hazel, boring into each other with intent.  
  
            They know how it ends. They’ve been here before. They don’t mind, they don’t _need_ to mind because in these moments they _are_ the only people in the world. And when they have to return to society, when the sunlight filters in through his window, lighting the floor in the soft lines of sun as it slowly rises, a soft breeze rustling his curtains, the artist _**knows**_ that all must be forgotten if they are to succeed.  
   
                                               It’s a **temporary** fix.  
   
           A _small_ reprieve.  
  
                        His eyes fall closed without his consent, and they drag back open much slower than he’d like, but he supposed that was part of what made it so appealing, this drug, this thing they smoked together in his room away from the world and prying eyes. A smile tickles his lips. The artist leans forward, intent, dedicated to his decision now because who is going to tell him to stop? Certainly not his companion who is more than willing to engage in just about everything. Not the world. Not **_God_**. Their lips touch. It’s soft and innocent, a testing of waters already explored.  
   
           Relationships were never his strong point. The artist’s mind is too fickle. He can’t commit when his mind, his body, his soul, runs on curiosity and exploration. What occurs between them… There’s a mutual understanding. Nothing serious except their friendship. _That_ is solid. Where their hands wander when they spend the evenings together in his smoke filled studio does not have any effect on their relationship outside of such actions. This is why nights like this are rare, few and far between because they both know that if they’re more regular, something might change and neither of them can afford that, a change. They are comfortable. What they have is **special**. What they have might even be love, but of course, things like that can never be said by either of them.  
  
            Soft touches, gentle kisses, the shedding of what little clothing they possessed. He finds himself enjoying this much more than he should. Perhaps it’s been too long since he’d allowed himself to indulge in something like this, something more intimate than his curiosity allows. They seem to know each other, inside and out. Of course they do. They’ve known each other for years. They’ve mingled, they’ve mixed, they’ve lain in that bed countless times, touching, kissing, breathing together countless times. What makes this any different? And perhaps it isn’t different, but it **feels** different. The artist is pushed back, hands soft on his shoulders, and he takes comfort in the fact that his companion, his friend, his sometimes more, knows every inch of his mind, even if he himself doesn’t.  He’s his _anchor_. How could he be anything different? The artist’s fingers trace his cheekbones, his jaw, his brow, awe bright in his eyes.  
  
                        Perhaps that too is what makes this relationship they have so special. For the artist, he’s an anchor. But for him? What does he see when those bright eyes stare at him, study him, **_d e c o n s t r u c t_** his being? A star, as bright as the sun and even further away, _just out of reach_. And sometimes he gets this glimpse, the star comes down from the heavens to walk with him, to talk and to share, to be a part of him and somehow this star, this glorious producer of light has deemed him worthy of his attention, his awe, and how can that be? How can someone so far away, so much higher than everyone else, consider him to be even half that level? And perhaps **that** is why he can’t stay away. Not for anything. Because his star gives him worth he may not deserve, but it’s worth. _And it’s good_.  
  
            Their lips press together, fingers lacing together as they drink in each other’s company. Their breath mingles, this time between them as their bodies find comfort in each other, skin to skin, lip to lip, and they fall into old habits and nearly forgotten ways, winding down paths they can’t remember and can’t even begin to forget. It’s there, in the backs of their minds, waiting for days such as this, nights quiet and minds and bodies free to roam and do as they please, and perhaps this is what they’re meant to do, what they mean to do.  
   
           And when they sleep it’s **together** , refusing to part because this moment, these moments, tender and few, are simply that, _few and far between_ and sometimes the need for each other is far greater than any thoughts of what might happen in the future.  
  
                        When the sun marks the ground, falls upon the bed and the cold pipe where it lays as they left it, the artist is already gone, the tangled sheets the **only** evidence that he had been there at all. His mind is turned to other things. Never mind the fact he slept through the night and rose early, never mind the fact he took a few moments to run his fingers through his friend’s tangled locks with a look that could be considered _tender_. He was on a different track. His fingers moved, fluttering beside him as he sketched, loose shirt hanging off his shoulders as he took up residence at his workbench, a bowl of fruit in front of him, picked through already. He blinked, head tipping ever so slightly at the sound of his bedclothes rustling. _Ah yes_.  
  
            “Get dressed. We have things to do. We’re meeting Nico at the Barking Dog. I’ll buy breakfast when we get there…”  
             
            As if nothing had happened, nothing at all. Because **acknowledgement** would ruin it, would ruin them. _And neither of them can afford that_. 


End file.
